THE SHIP-BOY'S SONG (Fourteenth Century) By DOROTHY MARGARET STUART

High on the yard-arm here sit I,

A-swing to scan the sea and sky,

While far below the Ship-man stands

And shouts to me between his hands.

I make a sign to him

That now the coast grows dim

And sinks from sight;

Now from our dipping bows

The dark-blue water flows

All silver-bright.

Whither we steer I do not care,

Crete, Alicant or Finisterre,

For casks of wine or russet bales,

So we have fair winds for our sails.

The wind that I love best,

Blow it from east or west

Across the foam,

Is that which bears us toward

Grey tower and daisied sward,

Harbour and home.

75Strange lands and strange folk I behold,

Faces of bronze and domes of gold,

Green spires that clang with brazen sound

Above the temples of Mahound.^[1]

But Dick my brother now

Jogs whistling by the plough

And marvelleth sore

That I should choose again

To brave the wind and rain

So far from shore.

I am no 'prentice, for I've made

Three voyages, thrice seen England fade

Astern, and thrice beheld it shine

Ahead on the horizon-line.

But Wat my brother sits

In school, and cracks his wits

O'er A and Z,

And envieth me much,

Me who have stuffed none such

Into my head.

Salt beef and stiff, dry bread and brown,

Will be my meed when I climb down;

I dare not doze upon my perch—

A rope's no softer than a birch!

Yet not with Dick or Wat

I'd choose to change my lot,

Nor any boy;

Though I be fain, no doubt,

When homeward bound I shout—

Ho, Land Ahoy!

76The boys ashore have some delights;

They need not wake and watch o' nights,

Nor clamber where the sharp winds blow

To hang the lanthorn on the bow;

No decks have they to scour

White as a lily-flower,

No chains to clean;

And orchard raids are theirs

For plums and sweet brown pears

And pippins green.

Yet rather than on shore to stay

And trudge a furrow half the day,

Or plod in school at clerkish craft,

I'd sail alone upon a raft!

Oh, it is brave to watch

Our great square mainsail catch

A humming breeze,

And golden amidst blue

To see our prow cleave through

The crested seas!

Five candles oft our Master vows

To St. Bartholomew his house;^[2]

But to St. Nicholas^[3] one will burn

This night, I know, for my return;

My Mother never yet

That candle did forget,

And never will;

Nor to that Saint to call

To guard me and us all

From every ill.

77

A Humming Breeze.

78If after dusk I sit aloft

When waves are gentle and winds soft

I love to watch, between the spars,

The solemn kindling of the stars.

They look like candles faint

Holden in lanthorns quaint

Of silver glass;

Mayhap they are lit by thee,

Thou friend of boys at sea,

St. Nicholas!

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